Stille Nacht
by girl in the glen
Summary: On Christmas Eve, very early in the partnership, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo begin a journey from past to future. This story is for the Christmas PicFic event on LJ, and is in three installments.
1. Chapter 1: Christmas Past

_Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,_

_Alles schläft; einsam wacht_

_Nur das traute hochheilige Paar._

_Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,_

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

The frigid air was a perfect conveyance for the sounds coming from the little church. Voices blended in unison to sing the old hymn as candles burned, providing the only illumination within.

Illya Kuryakin shivered, not from the cold but rather an icy memory brought on by the German lyrics.

"You okay, tovarisch?"

Napoleon's query was illustrated by a puff of air, barely visible in the dim light of their room's only lamp. The two agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement were newly partnered, and this foray into the Austrian Alps on Christmas Eve was another reason to never make plans for the holidays. Napoleon Solo was learning the hard way with a string of disappointed young women who mourned his absence during this festive season.

The other man, the Russian, had always known to avoid thinking about the future. That is not to say he always obeyed that knowledge, human nature being what it is. There was no denying, however, that his plans rarely emerged unscathed by the interference of others, whether those in authority or enemies bent on his destruction.

"What? Oh, yes, I am fine. And you?"

Napoleon chuckled. This guy was polite under all circumstances.

"I'm just… great, thanks. It's just that … I don't know, you seem sort of … melancholy.'

The blond head canted slightly, the blue eyes betrayed nothing of the emotional turmoil behind them.

"I just thought maybe being here on Christmas, away from home …"

Now Illya smiled, just a little.

"I have no home, Napoleon, so being here is as good as being anyplace else on earth."

The inflection of his voice gave nothing away, but Napoleon saw, for just a fraction of a second, something in Illya's eyes.

_It's always in the eyes_, he mused to himself. He had learned that early on, and knowing it always gave him an edge.

Something in the American's expression gave away his recognition of the other man's emotion, and Illya immediately locked down any further disclosures that might come from an unguarded moment. It would do no good to revisit the past.

"So, tell me Napoleon, where do you go for Christmas? That is when not on assignment … If you do not mind my asking."

Shifting the conversation away from himself was a ploy learned early by the Russian, back in those first years away from his family. Now, it seemed, the same type of subterfuge would still be a necessary tool in order for him to remain, as he had heard it said, _under the radar_.

Napoleon recognized the subtle maneuvering, but decided to oblige. Obviously Illya wasn't anxious to talk about himself, not an altogether disagreeable attribute in a partner.

"Hmmm… well, my family is a little scattered. My grandparents on both sides have had to contend with absence; one grandfather in the military and the other a diplomat …'

Illya raised an eyebrow at that. He hadn't known this about Napoleon.

"…Yeah. So, anyway … I don't guess many of us go into this line of work because we're accustomed to a normal life that we're hoping to preserve. I generally don't go home for the holidays, even if I'm not on assignment. I guess we all sort of take care of each other, so, you see…"

"See what?'

Napoleon was surprised to hear a defensive tone in the blond's voice.

"You naturally assume that my life in the Soviet Union is an unhappy one, that my family is …'

Illya caught himself, but it was too late to avoid the look of amusement on Napoleon's face.

"Why are you smiling?"

"What are you hiding?"

"I am not hiding anything. I merely meant to say … It is irrelevant about my life before now. Who I was, who my family was to me … none of that exists any longer.'

Illya looked out the window at something well beyond his line of vision.

"You cannot possibly understand."

Napoleon felt a flush in his face as he realized the truth of what Illya was saying. No, he couldn't understand what it must be like to constantly start over in a new country, among people to whom you had no sense of attachment or familiarity.

Soldiers might go off to war on foreign soil, but they did it hoping to return to their homes and families. Illya seemed destined to never return to Russia based on what Napoleon had been allowed to read of his partner's file. The arrangement was a permanent one, the decision thrust upon the young man as a point of duty to which there was no refusal.

"I'm sorry. I forget sometimes … '

Again, the sideways look, full of challenge.

" … that your life was different before. You've had more accomplishments than most people will ever have.'

Napoleon paused, swallowing back his doubts about this little speech.

"But, I can see where it might be … _would be_ difficult to leave everything and everyone behind, even for such an adventurous life."

Napoleon made it sound as though Illya was the center of a travelogue or documentary. He was smooth, always proving why Alexander Waverly put so much confidence in the young American's future. Illya recognized it too, and appreciated the emphasis on the good things that he had experienced. The past wasn't _all bad_, he supposed. It was that hymn, the memories of German soldiers singing Christmas carols in the dead of winter while Illya's family hid in the darkened recesses of ruined buildings as the punishing cold took its toll.

"My mother …'

Should he talk about it? He suddenly wanted to, although if he really considered it, Illya would realize he had wanted to talk about these things for a very long time.

"My mother was very beautiful, with long dark hair and blue eyes. My father was blond, as I am, and a musician by profession. He had been a member of the State Symphony prior to the War, before things became … difficult.'

The singing from the church had ceased, and now parishioners could be seen coming out into the night, their farewells interlaced with wishes for a happy Christmas as they headed towards home. Illya watched for a moment before resuming his narrative.

"When war broke out my father was _recruited_, as were most of the men in the country. My mother was Ukranian, so we went back to live with her parents just outside of Kiev. That is where I learned a little of their faith, something I had not known previously. I found it compelling, although … well, it held my attention."

When he turned back from looking out into that snow covered landscape, Illya saw genuine interest in Napoleon's expression. It served to fuel something, a flicker of friendship that the Russian knew was genuine.

"We were caught between political factions, and Kiev was ravaged by the Germans and then the Soviet forces looking for partisans...'

Napoleon raised a questioning brow.

"Many Ukrainians looked to the Germans as liberators for a time, because of the treatment they had received under Stalin's regime. There was no right side. Ultimately our family had to live in an old building that had been abandoned. With only the women and children, and my aging grandfather, it was a daily challenge to stay warm and … "

Another pause in the story told Napoleon that it was perhaps more than his partner had bargained for.

"It's all right, Illya. You don't need to …"

"Yes, yes I think that I do. I am not ashamed of those years, of how we had to live. We were fighting for our lives, and we were surviving. So many others did not."

Napoleon thought he saw the blue eyes look more liquid, more blue somehow. Tears?

"We made it through the war, and my father returned with some minor damage to his left leg. He planned to return to the orchestra, but then there was the purge, _Zhdanovshchina_, and papa was caught up in that because of his previous associations."

Napoleon stopped Illya there.

"Zhdanovshchina. The purging of the Soviet creative community? I've heard of that. So … what happened after that?"

Illya took a breath so deep that Napoleon thought it sounded like a man searching for more than air.

"There was no after. The State began searching for youths who would be good candidates for educating in the new Soviet system, in the arts and sciences, for industrialization … I was sent away to a state school and …"

Napoleon was captivated; never before had Illya shared so much of his past. He had to remind himself that there was still the business of surveillance that had brought them here. Within seconds of that thought, Illya pointed to the man they sought as he emerged from the little church across the street.

"There he is. Alexander Annikov."

"That's our cue. Are you ready?"

Illya blinked, almost as though by doing so he could conjure up the character he would portray.

"Da. Now I am ready."


	2. Chapter 2: Christmas Present

Alexander Anikov was the newest kind of THRUSH chief; he was Russian by birth, although his parents were both from the Ukraine. He had been brought up within the closed ranks of Soviet dignitaries for whom privilege translated to power, and power assumed a degree of entitlement not known to the average citizen.

Not satisfied with the opportunities available within the Soviet structure, Anikov had looked for other avenues of gaining the power and wealth that he craved. THRUSH came calling at the just the right time, and when Alexander Anikov opened the door to the Hierarchy it was like a Pandora's box of potential horrors. The brutality of a Stalinesque agenda combined with the same megalomaniacal vision that drove THRUSH and its chief designers when Anikov joined forces with them.

"Be careful, tovarisch. He's wary of newcomers, especially those from the USSR."

Illya nodded his agreement. How to be careful though, in a situation such as this?"

"I shall not take any unnecessary risks, but …'

He turned to look fully into his partner's face, blue eyes unable to reassure Solo that all would be well.

"…we know there are some, and this man must be stopped."

Illya understood men like Anikov, although from a distance. It had been an easy decision on Waverly's part to send Kuryakin into this assignment. No one else within the Command would be able to move with the same ease, or convince Anikov of the prize they were promising, but would not deliver.

Napoleon watched his partner cross the street towards Anikov's party as they exited the church. It seemed an indecent kind of strategy to use a church for what was surely an unholy venture; the American hoped that Illya would succeed in deterring Anikov's plans.

It was difficult to believe this was Christmas Eve. The American sighed into the empty night, hopeful that his friend would be able to infiltrate the other Russian's band of outlaws.

As Napoleon sat in the window observing the scene below, Illya stopped beside a large tree whose sagging branches were supporting the recent snowfall. Two of Anikov's bodyguards approached the UNCLE agent, exchanging greetings and then, Napoleon supposed, some type of pre-arranged code for the purpose of identifying one another.

Finally, Alexander Anikov approached Illya. He extended his hand in a manner that suggested he was not wary of the man, although it was impossible to believe he was ever a trusting individual under any circumstances.

"Comrade, you have gone to a great deal of trouble to meet me here, as I have in order to accommodate this rendezvous. I hope you have something worthy of my time and effort."

He spoke in Russian, daring the blond to be anything but authentic.

"Da, Comrade Anikov. I have encountered great danger in order to bring to you … '

Illya paused, casting a glance over his left shoulder as though someone may be lurking close by.

"… an offer."

Anikov's expression betrayed nothing about his response to Illya's statement.

"What sort of offer? You must know that if you have wasted my time with this…'

He indicated the man to his left, who pulled back his coat to reveal a Makarov; it was a familiar firearm to Illya, and he coolly responded by nodding his head as an acknowledgement of the threat.

"So then, tovarisch, tell me this great thing you have for me."

Illya was wearing a mink fur ushanka, something he had acquired while on an excursion into the northernmost regions of Russia. He had secured the earflaps on the crown of the hat, but now he released them and pulled them down over his ears. It was a signal to Napoleon that contact was successful.

Illya would be unveiling the plan concocted by UNCLE for the demise of Alexander Anikov, to the man himself.


	3. Chapter 3: Christmas Future

The night was becoming increasingly more frigid, and as the men stood there by the imposing tree snow began to fall softly. Napoleon was still watching, hoping against hope that nothing would go wrong.

Illya looked directly in Anikov's eyes as he replied to the challenge.

"Comrade, you and I are both familiar with the workings of our government, and yet despite all attempts to dampen the spiritual influences there are those who believe in the superstitions of our fathers and grandfathers.'

He paused, gauging the other man's interest in this topic. Illya hoped the information they had on the man was accurate: Alexander Anikov was reported to be a mystic of sorts, seeking out that which might gain for him some unexplainable power.

"You are a man who understands that the unknown does indeed hold knowledge and possibly influence, when it is carefully handled."

Anikov was intrigued by this conversation, and indicated to Illya that he should continue.

"May I?"

Illya held open his coat to show that he had no weapons. Anikov nodded, but his expression bore a warning for the smaller man.

Illya withdrew a small box, in appearance it seemed to be made of gold. It was adorned with a simple gold bow.

"This simple box contains that for which you have sought these many years, comrade. I know for a fact that it was obtained from the hands of a spiritual master, a man whose own years remain a mystery for their great number.'

"This is a treasure taken from those who have discovered the secret of eternal life. I offer it to you, Alexander Mikhaelovich Anikov."

Anikov was unsure whether to grab the box from the blond's hand or shoot the man for assuming him to be a fool. There was some uncertainty as to which would be the correct course of action.

"Do you think me entirely gullible? Why should I believe that you are telling me the truth? The idea of eternal life is a myth, and you would attempt to beguile me with this story of old men and wizened yogis. I should shoot you here for your insolence."

Illya feigned indignation at the suggestion of his dishonesty.

"I know it sounds impossible, and if I were not myself the recipient of this miracle, I should welcome the bullet you are now considering shooting me with. Look at me, comrade, and see if you do not recognize me…"

Anikov looked more closely at the young man, for what reason he wasn't entirely certain. Suddenly, a memory came to him of a young musician he had last seen in Moscow some thirty years prior to this evening. Alexander Anikov remembered him because the man's wife had been his own father's eldest daughter, the offspring of an earlier failed marriage.

How Waverly had ascertained all of this, and the likelihood that Illya was the image of his deceased father was another in the list of improbabilities that populated the world in which these men lived.

"Nikolai? No, it is not possible, you are … Nikolai Kuryakin died in the camps of …"

Illya smiled at that, fighting the memories as he maintained the façade that he was, indeed, his own father.

"That was the story they told. In truth, Alexander, there were experiments going on with these fantastic elements and I was chosen to be a part of it. The results were not what they anticipated, so that instead of being tormented and dying a horrible death, I gained my youth so that I stand here, today, a testament to the truth of eternal life."

Anikov was stunned. There was no mistaking that this was, indeed, the man he had known as Nikolai Sergeyevich Kuryakin. He wondered now what had become of Nikolai's man's wife who was Alexander's half sister. Anikov had lost track of her during that troubling time, and had not been much inclined to inquire into her fate.

Illya took the opportunity to put the box into Anikov's hands, knowing without a doubt that the bait had been taken.

"You are the only one I can trust with this, and for the sake of your relationship to my dear wife and the good that you will perhaps do with it, I give this treasure to you Alexander Mikhaelovich."

Anikov was still staring at the blond man whose tale was beginning to seem real. He had searched for such a wonder, always hoping that the stories were real and that he might gain the impossible: eternal life. His future would be very different now if this were all as Kuryakin presented it.

"What do I … how does it work, Nikolai Sergeyevich?"

Now Illya was going to give the best part of his performance. He owed this to his parents, to his father who had been unjustly imprisoned. And for his mother, whose fate had been sealed by a lack of response or intervention from a man who had been her own flesh and blood. There was some small measure of revenge in this plot, and Illya recognized the hand that Waverly was playing, how easily he had maneuvered the Russian into it.

"You will do nothing, Alexander Mikhaelovich. Put this in a safe place, and when the time is right it will call to you. It is the secret of the ages, the paradise we can only dream about. I am living proof that what is in this box is real, that youth can be eternally ours if we will only obey the treasure contained in it.'

Illya's face took on the visage of one in whom only truth existed.

"You can trust me, it will change your future."

Anikov took the box, his greedy desire for eternal youth a greater need than that for any kind of security. He motioned his men away, and drawing closer to Illya he whispered so that only the younger man could hear him.

"Tell me the name of the man who gave you this, and why it has remained with you."

Illya smiled, a knowing expression exuded a confidence that must have come, seemingly, from his own experiences.

"I received this from Comrade Stalin himself. He discovered it while in one of his trances, after entering into _Hohha_. He was a mystic, tovarisch, as I now am. Why do you think his body never deteriorated? Why do you think it was removed from its place next to Lenin?"

At this Anikov nearly blanched from the inference that Stalin was still alive.

"It is true what you are telling me, Nikolai Sergeyevich?"

"All of it, and so you must take this now. Do not look back and do not open it until it calls you. Live long, comrade, as I am doing now."

Illya reached up and kissed Anikov on first one cheek and then the other, clasping his shoulders finally in an embrace before he turned and walked away. Each step was a risk, every second filled with the prospect of a bullet in his back.

Anikov stood looking at the gold box in his hands. He believed it. He believed the entire story, had known about Stalin's interest in the occult and the stories surrounding the great man's mystical qualities, the Hohha, the pipe…

"I will live forever…"

Illya walked down the street under a soft shower of snow until he reached a doorway that had been designated for him to enter when the time came. Now, as he pulled the door closed behind him, the Russian took a deep breath and only then let his body begin to relax just a little. The tension had been excruciating, the loathing he felt for the man Anikov nearly suffocating.

The sound of his communicator jerked him back into the present.

"Kuryakin, what…"

"Illya, did he buy it? Do you think he'll hold onto the box and not open it?"

Napoleon had watched the scene below him play out, had listened in on the outlandish story his partner told the other man. Now he just needed to hear it from Illya, to have some confirming evidence that their plan would work.

"Yes. I believe he will do exactly as I told him. Russians are superstitious deep down, and Stalin really did do all of what I said, except for delivering the secret for eternal youth."

"So…'

Napoleon almost hated to ask, but Illya had just condemned a man who, by the sound of it, was somehow related to the Kuryakin family.

"He is my uncle, Napoleon. My mother's half brother.'

A long pause begged for some type of intervention, but neither man spoke for some time. Finally, Illya took a long breath and explained.

"After my father was arrested, when my mother and I were back in Kiev, the authorities finally came for her as well. Anikov could have intervened, he was already climbing upward and his word might have meant something. But…'

"But he didn't?"

Another sigh from the Russian.

"No. They took my mother, and I was placed in a state school with only a remnant of that life to remind me in the years to come that I had once been part of a family."

Napoleon had a surge of pity for his friend, and then he realized it was compassion; the kind one has toward those for whom you care a great deal. This new partnership took on a different kind of value that night.

"I'm sorry, Illya. This must have been very difficult for you, and I'm proud of you partner. Now, what will happen next?"

Illya heard a church bell, and looking out at the snowfall he reckoned it must be midnight. Christmas.

"The box has a tracking element in it that will keep UNCLE informed as well as the Soviets. When Anikov reaches his home base the signal will alert those who want to apprehend him with the location and …"

"And that's the end of Alexander Anikov."

Illya nodded to no one.

"Yes, hopefully that will be the end. He has done much that has been detestable and vicious to Soviet citizens, multiplying the danger when he became involved with THRUSH. He needed to be stopped. It is no coincidence that he was taken in by the suggestion that Josef Stalin pioneered this secret of eternal youth. They are alike in many ways."

Napoleon wanted to put this assignment behind them, hoped that Illya could still have a pleasant Christmas in spite of whatever memories had been resurrected tonight.

"We have a flight to catch, partner. I'll pick you up on my way down."

"Yes… I will be very happy to see New York again. Kuryakin out."

A long flight later found the two friends back in New York City, just in time for Christmas. For Illya, there was lightness in his emotions that he hadn't experienced for years.


End file.
